Maita's house, after a fresh coat of paint in 2012 |
The clay-brick and wooden logs homestead was perched on a
beautiful mountain surrounded by fruit orchards and small vineyards. Underneath
the rich black soil were layers upon layers of salt that would someday doom the
entire side of the mountain and the small farms as the topsoil slid down the foothill
crashing everything in its path, trees, homes, barns, and vineyards, burying
everything many families held dear for generations. Fortunately nobody was seriously hurt as most
people were working other fields or in government factories at the edge of the
nearest town.
The communist party rulers made a meek attempt at helping
those who lost their homes by offering them for sale small plots of land
elsewhere in the village, not so isolated from their grasp.
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2012
The front porch would offer a shady respite in summer time but
in wintertime hungry wolves would be so brazen as to climb the few front steps
in their quest for food. Shiny eyes
could be seen in the dark followed by hair-raising howls echoing in the
distance, sometimes really close.
The chicken coup and shed were safe and tightly latched. The
pig, sheep, and the cow, which provided milk, butter, and cheese for her large
family, were also sheltered and locked at night.
Maita's gate and grapevines
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2011
Each child had a well-defined role and daily chores in her
family. There were no idle little hands; everyone had to care for each other
and to earn their keep. The most hated chore was walking up and down the
mountain to the deep well activated by a wooden chained bucket and a wheel and
covered by a heavy wood cover to prevent debris, animals, and small children
from falling in. With each trip, boys had to carry back to the house two large
buckets of ice-cold water balanced on a very heavy stick on both shoulders.
If a lot of snow accumulated, the clusters of trees, vines,
and the orchards kept it in place; now and then mini-avalanches would bury some
trees and fences in their path.
When the three boys were old enough to get jobs in the city,
they joined the village men on the open transport truck. Traveling like cattle
every day on the bumpy unpaved road for miles of miserably wet or frigid
weather to a menial job, they resigned themselves to the proletariat’s fate, working for slave wages for the
communist utopia which pretended to protect them. On at least one occasion, a
passenger was let off at his stop but he never made the long walk on foot up
the mountain to his home; he was found frozen in the ditch along the way. After
a six-month period of mourning, the tough life moved on.
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2012
Sound carried so well across the valleys that it was hard to
judge how far people or animals making the sounds were. As a child, I often
heard aunt Leana calling out from the front porch of her tiny house above the
tree lines to Maita’s home, telling us to come for lunch or a special treat she
had baked. And it was a long and breath-taking hike to her house or so it
seemed to a small child.
I would judge the distance based on the beautiful cross and Orthodox
icon along the way, nestled in a covered shelter where the villagers would stop
briefly for a prayer and a drink of water from the bucket and cup left fresh
each day by the nearby community well.
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2012
The silence punctuated by our huffs and puffs would be
startled sometimes by a concealed voice coming from a person behind a fence
covered in grape vines, saying hello or asking how we were doing. Maita was so
proud when her neighbors would fawn over her visiting granddaughter.
After the landslide precipitated by melting snow and gliding
layers of salt, Maita rebuilt a home next to her oldest son Nicolae in the
middle of the village, conveniently close to the only store, the bus stop, the
cemetery, and the village church. From
the front porch we could see the valley below shrouded in mist at dawn and filled
with endless rows of grapevines and fruit trees. When the sun came up, the cold
creek we bathed in each week sparkled like a jewel.
I stayed in this mud-brick home every summer. It was always
cool and smelled of quince and autumn smoke. Maita cooked on a spit fire her famous
chicken in the cast iron pot and tasty smoked beans when she was fasting. She
had a large garden with plenty of vegetables to feed herself and her son’s
large family next door. A small opening
in the fence allowed for quick passage to the two properties separated by a weathered
fence.
Today the house is sadly abandoned. The heirs cannot agree on
what to do with the property that nobody wants. The blue metal gate is in need
of a new coat of paint and creaks in the wind when it opens. The rust spots
match the grape leaves on the vines overhanging the walkway. I tread lightly,
careful not to disturb the past. The porch is latched just as Maita and her son
Ion used to do it. Her last child passed away last summer but his presence is
still felt in the garden now overrun with weeds.
Maita's last house
Photo: Ileana 2011
Aunt Leana's grape vines
Photo: Ileana 2011
Uncle Stelian in his yard
Photo: Ileana 2011
Leana and Maita's water well
Photo: Ileana 2011
Many of Ileana's experiences and memories remind me of stays/visits to my grandparents home in Southern Illnois. Pumping water from the well out back and bringing in the pail for cooking and washing. No safe spaces.
ReplyDeleteIt is another world that young and ungrateful Americans seem determined to erase from history and memory, Bill.
DeleteMerry Christmas to you!